Bury Me Standing
by MaireadOutlander
Summary: A (long) short story about an original character, Christine, the oldest daughter of Rick and Lori. After the fall of the prison (season 4, episode 8), Christine and her baby sister Judith are separated from Rick and Carl. Unsure of her father and brother's whereabouts or whether they are even alive, Christine sets out in hopes of finding them and the rest of their group.
1. Chapter 1

Part 1

 _Song accompaniment: "My Silver Lining," First Aid Kit_

Christine shook her shoulder, trying to adjust the strap of her bag without putting Judith down. Finding herself unsuccessful, she shifted Judith to one arm, took the long strap of the duffel bag and lifted it over her head so that the strap hung diagonally across her body and the bag sat snugly against her back.

"That's better," she said to Judith.

She knew Judith couldn't understand her but people talked to babies that way all the time and Christine needed to talk to someone. Ever since the prison was destroyed two days earlier, Christine had been terrified by the silence that surrounded her. Whenever she let herself feel it too acutely, it nearly paralyzed her, stopping her in the middle of the road while she relived the governor laying Michonne's sword deep into Hershel's neck, the governor and his people blasting through the prison fences, the walkers streaming in, her father out in the middle of it all.

So she talked to Judith to ward off the silence and its accompanying images.

"We're going to go find Dad and Carl, Judith. They made it out, I'm sure of it. They're probably looking for us too."

"We'll follow the railroad tracks for now, Judith."

"They must have made it out. Carl's become such a good shot. I'm sure they made it out."

"We'll sleep in here tonight."

"Dad and Carl know how to survive, Judith. They'll be fine. We have to stay alive for them, ok? They'll find us. If we don't find them first."

She kissed Judith on the top of her head and smoothed her light brown baby hairs back and out of her face. Christine often thought about how she was old enough to be Judith's mother. Her own parents were only sixteen when they had her and Christine was twenty-two now. Sometimes, she felt like she _was_ Judith's mother but then she'd chastise herself. Judith had a mother already, the same one that Christine did, and she and Carl and her father were going to make sure Judith knew who that mother was. Or, that had been the plan anyway. She and Carl had stayed up late several nights planning how they'd teach Judith about Mom, about how smart she was and strong, about how she made horrible pancakes; they considered what they'd include and what they might not. Now, she wasn't sure where Carl was, where their father was, wasn't even sure they were alive, despite what she told Judith. Reflecting on this, she squeezed Judith a little tighter, causing her to cry.

"Shh, Shh," she cooed. "It's ok, baby. It's ok. I need you to be quiet, all right?"

Judith began to cry louder.

Christine rocked her back and forth as she walked. "Judith, if you're quiet, it'll help us find Dad and Carl, ok?" Judith continued to cry. "And Maggie," Christine whispered into the top of her sister's head. "And Michonne, and Glenn, and Daryl, and Beth, and Carol, and Tyreese, and Sasha."

Christine felt herself beginning to cry too but stifled it. They didn't have enough water for her to be wasting it on tears. Besides, she had to keep her wits about her. She had always had trouble killing walkers and that was without the extra burden of a crying baby in her arms. Christine sighed and stopped just for a moment. She set Judith down on the ground, swung the bag off her shoulder, and began rifling through it.

It wasn't very full. The two containers of formula, two baby bottles, five water bottles, one packet of diapers, and one pistol took up less than half the space. There wasn't nearly enough formula for Judith and hardly any water to mix it in. Christine was trying to ration the water but they'd be out of that in less than a week. Meanwhile, there wasn't any food for Christine. She'd been living off berries for the last two days but she knew that wasn't sustainable. Her hand moved through the bag's empty space until she found the pistol. She checked to make sure the safety was on, then tucked it into the back of her pants. She also pulled her knife out of her back pocket. If Judith was going to keep crying, Christine would need to be prepared for whatever the cries attracted—walkers or people. She hoisted the bag onto her back and picked up Judith, holding her in the crook of her left arm as she wrapped the fingers of her right hand around the knife.

"It's ok, Judith," she said. "Don't cry. It's ok."

This was a lie of course but Judith couldn't know that.

"I won't let anything happen to you, ok?"

This wasn't a lie.

Christine considered singing to Judith, something she had never tried before but had heard Beth doing. She wracked her brain for songs but she didn't know any music for babies. What kind of a sister was she not to know any nursery rhymes? Had she been leaving too much of Judith's care up to Beth? Pondering this, she squinted in the bright sunlight, then smiled.

"I've got it," she whispered to a still bawling Judith.

 _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  
You make me happy when skies are grey.  
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.  
Please don't take my sunshine away._

Judith's crying slowed and Christine tried to remember the next verse. Failing to do so,

she opted to sing the chorus again and, when it worked and Judith stopped crying all together, a third time.

"Don't worry," she said. "No one will ever take you away from me."

As the sun began to set, Christine veered away from the tracks into the woods. She liked to stay out in the open during the day. It was easier to spot walkers that way and to avoid them entirely. She also liked her chances of running into someone from their group better out in the open than in the woods. She realized that, under ordinary circumstances, her father would probably choose to travel through the woods in order to hide from other unsavory travelers. However, she didn't think it likely that they'd run into each other in the large expanse of forest. Limiting her search to the small width of a train track seemed more promising. She hoped her father and Carl were travelling along the railroad track, or at least an open road, for the same reasons she was and that, through some miracle, they'd find themselves walking along the same path. At night, however, she tried to find a cabin or shack to sleep in and had managed to find one her first night. She was pleasantly surprised by the number of rudimentary dwellings scattered throughout the woods, often just a few feet away from the train tracks.

This night was no exception and soon Christine and Judith were settled inside what looked like a small hunting cabin. Rifles and deer heads lined the walls and there was even a cot in the far corner. Christine pulled one of the rifles off its mount and jammed it through the door handle, using it as another lock to keep walkers out. The only chair in the cabin was spindly and flimsy-looking but she pushed it up against the door anyway.

Christine lay an already sleeping Judith on the wall-side of the cot and lay down next to her. Christine hadn't slept since leaving the prison, too scared to close her eyes even inside the cabin on the first night. Tonight, though, she could barely keep them open. She gently placed her hand around one of Judith's tiny hands. She wasn't much of a singer but singing to Judith on the road had brought back old memories, old songs too. Her mother hadn't been much of a singer either but she used to sing to Christine every night, or so Christine thought she remembered. Maybe what she actually remembered was her mother singing to Carl but she must have sung to Christine too. Or maybe not. She had been so young. Christine shrugged her shoulders. Her mother would have sung to Judith, she reasoned and began to sing herself, drawing up the words and melody from some hidden reserve, unsure of what the lyric would be until it passed through her lips.

 _Lullaby, and good night. In the skies stars are bright.  
_ _May the moon's silvery beams bring you sweet dreams.  
_ _Close your eyes, now and rest. May these hours be blessed  
_ _Till the sky's bright with dawn, when you wake with a yawn.  
_ _Lullaby, and good night. You are mother's delight.  
_ _I'll protect you from harm, and you'll wake in my arms._

She couldn't stop the tears this time and saw drops of dew clinging to her eyelashes as she blinked. After a few more blinks, Christine let her eyes close completely.

She woke to the sound of rattling and instinctively grabbed for Judith who woke up and began to cry. Reorienting herself to her surroundings, Christine realized that someone—or perhaps a crowd of someones—was trying to get through the door. The cabin had no windows so she tiptoed over to the door and put her ear to wood, hearing the unmistakable sound of walkers. She had no way of knowing how many of them were out there and no way of leaving. She walked back to Judith and wrapped her in a blanket from the cot as if this would ease her crying. Then she went back to the door and sat down in the chair, adding her weight to the obstacles in the walkers' path. Judith's crying was becoming pitiful; she was beginning to shriek. Christine had wanted to keep her as far from the walkers as possible but she didn't want to risk drawing more in and she could hardly stand leaving Judith alone to cry like that. She scooped her up and rushed back to the chair, rocking Judith on her knee.

Eventually Judith stopped crying and Christine became habituated to the noise of the walkers, the way she had with the cicadas that visited her house in the summer or the traffic that rushed past her old dorm window. The walkers were making no progress on the cabin door and the walls looked pretty sturdy. Christine wrapped her arms around Judith, leaned her head back, and fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

 _Song accompaniment: "Wild Goose Chase," Dark Dark Dark_

When she woke the next morning, the noise was gone. The walkers had either left or thinned out considerably. Judith was happier, laughing at Christine as she made funny faces and happily sucking at her bottle. As Christine tried to conserve water, the concoctions she poured into the bottles became thicker and thicker—less water, more powder—but Judith didn't seem to mind. Christine allowed herself a few sips of water, feeling a painful gnawing in her empty stomach. She changed Judith's diaper, placed a blanket from the cot in her bag, poked her head—and gun—out the door to check for walkers, and, finding none, lifted Judith and the bag into her arms before stepping outside and heading back to the train tracks.

"This is a good morning," she said to Judith. "We're both well-rested. I feel better than I have in days."

Christine's stomach grumbled in muffled contradiction, causing Judith to turn her head toward the noise.

"It's nice of you to offer to share your formula with me," Christine said. "But, you need that for yourself. Besides, I'm not sure how good that stuff is for grownups. I mean, it's probably fine, but I'm not sure. Believe it or not, Judith, I've never been tempted to try it."

Judith smiled.

"Thank you. I know I'm very funny."

Despite being better rested than she had been before, by midday, Christine did not, in actuality, feel better than she had in days. Her hunger was making her light-headed and she let herself drink a quarter of a water bottle when she took a break to feed Judith. She wished she had paid attention when her father had tried to teach her how to trap small game. He had never even tried to teach her to hunt, although after dealing with walkers, she was likely more adept at this than she had been previously, not that she felt very confident in her aim or wanted a gunshot to signal her location. Instead, she walked along the edge of the tracks, right by the woods, looking for berries. At midday, she found eight shriveled grapes. For a moment, she considered rationing the grapes to make them last throughout the day, but changed her mind after her first bite. Still, she ate each one slowly, carefully, taking three or four bites per tiny grape before continuing on her way.

The sugar fueled her for a while, but a couple hours later, she began to stumble, at one point, almost dropping Judith. She sat down and pulled up clumps of grass, which she placed in her mouth, looking from side to side as if worried that someone might witness her debasement.

Just before dusk, Christine turned toward the woods, looking for another cabin. By nightfall, she still hadn't found one. She considered retreating to the cabin from the night before but couldn't bring herself to walk back so far and erase all of the day's progress. It wasn't like she had a particular destination but moving forward helped her feel like she was doing something. Maybe, if she kept walking east, as she had been doing, she'd reach a camp and find Dad and Carl there waiting for her. Maybe.

While she refused to retrace her steps all the way back to the previous night's lodgings, Christine did decide to return to the train tracks. If she and Judith couldn't find shelter, they were better off staying out of the woods. Christine set herself down in the middle of the track, resting her back against one of the railway ties, and letting Judith lay on her chest. She watched her baby sister rise and fall as she breathed in and out, then took out the blanket she had packed that morning and draped it over them both. She placed one hand on Judith's back and the other on her gun, giving herself arithmetic problems to solve in order to stay awake. Or, really, in order to distract herself. Without the luxury of an indoor shelter, she had to stay up and keep watch, but, despite her fatigue, this wasn't hard. She was too scared to sleep anyway. Before the world went crazy, Christine had been afraid of the dark and even kept a nightlight plugged into the wall of her college dorm room. This new world had quickly disabused her of such frivolous fears but she still hated to be out at night. Now, however, she wasn't so much afraid of the dark, but rather what was hiding behind it—walkers, men like the governor, carnivorous animals. She was in no danger of falling asleep.

When she had run through the list of three number combinations that added up to ten, she tried talking to Judith, whispering so as not to actually wake her up.

"We're going to be fine," she said.

She imagined that Judith was probably tired of hearing this. Christine was certainly tired of hearing herself say it but she also couldn't bring herself to stop. She had to keep saying it until she believed it, or at least partially. She might not be fine, but, god damn it, Judith was going to be. Judith hadn't asked to be born into a world like this and Christine felt it was her duty—and her father's and Carl's to some extent—to make it up to her.

When Christine had first heard her mother was pregnant, she had been momentarily furious but had quickly softened at the look of terror on her mother's face as she and her father told her.

"That's amazing," Christine had said.

"It is?" her mother asked.

Christine had nodded, hugging first her mother, then her father, and then her mother again. Then, she had walked away from them, her stride lengthening as she got farther and farther away. When she was at af safe distance, she had bent down and screamed.

"I'm so glad you're here," Christine now said to Judith, "And I'm sorry for that. I'm so sorry."

She felt herself starting to cry and pounded her fist into the rocks beside her in frustration. The impact hurt enough to keep her from dwelling on her emotions long enough to develop a full-on sob.

The night Judith was born, the same night their mother died, Christine had sat up with her, whispering to her and holding her delicate head up with her elbow.

"Hey baby," she had said. "I don't hate you, ok? I love you. I love you so much."

She had repeated this strange mantra throughout much of Judith's first month and had worried since that it might have influenced Judith's growing sense of self. Babies didn't remember that kind of thing, though, right? At the time, she had considered it important to say, maybe not to Judith but to herself. Judith hadn't killed her mother. This world had. The walkers had, but she couldn't really blame them. They were already dead. She couldn't blame Judith either and didn't want to, she so desperately did not want to. Instead, she blamed her father.

Christine had always been closer to her father than her mother—a phenomenon that some less tactful family friends used to comment on in a way that made everyone involved uncomfortable—but in the months before Judith was born, Christine had sided with her mother in the mysterious—and also not so mysterious—war that was taking place between her parents. Shane came into it, of course. How quickly Lori had shacked up with Shane after she thought Rick was dead. Then there was the fact that Rick had killed Shane and that Carl had had to put him down after he turned. That was, of course, disturbing. But, there was something more to it too, something unspoken but almost violent in its silence.

Christine always thought of her parents as Lori and Rick when evaluating their fights. At all other times, they were Mom and Dad but when they fought they weren't her parents first and foremost. They were just people. Christine wondered if everyone thought of their parents in this way or if it was just children born to teen parents, children who got to witness their parents growing up with them.

What happened between Lori and Rick before Lori died couldn't even be described as a fight, not really. That would have required them to speak to one another. Instead, they spoke past each other, or not at all. It seemed to Christine, though, that Lori was making more of an effort than Rick, and she was not afraid to tell him this.

"Dad?" she asked the night after they arrived at the prison. "Can I talk to you?"

"I'm a little busy, Chrissy," her father had responded, calling her by the nickname that only he still used for her and that Christine usually found endearing but that set her on edge that day.

"Actually," she said, "I'm not asking. That's what Mom does, right? She asks to talk? And you just brush her off. So, I'm telling you we have to talk. Now."

Her father was patrolling the prison walls. The group had cleared one area but had far more to go and were running out of bullets. There was plenty to think about, to worry about, but there wasn't anything to be done that night. Her father wasn't, in Christine's opinion at least, busy.

"Fine," her father had said without looking at her. "Talk."

"I think you need to be nicer to Mom."

"That's what you _have_ to talk to me about now?"

"Is your wife's happiness not important enough to warrant your time?"

"No," her father said. "It's not. None of ours are."

"Ok," Christine said. "She could die, though. You know that, right?"

Her father wheeled around. "Don't say that."

"So you care?"

"Of course I do," her father growled. "And you know it."

"Yeah, I do," Christine said, chastened. "But, what I'm trying to say is, Carl and I had to be born by C-section, right? So, this baby will probably have to be born that way too and it's not like we can just go to a hospital, and—"

"Hershel knows how to do a C-section. He's done one before."

"On cows!"

"Chrissy, I—"

"And that was when he had the proper tools."

"The prison will have an infirmary. That should have some sterile tools in it."

"All right," Christine said. "I just, I just think you should entertain the possibility that she won't make it."

"I won't do that." Her father's eyes were violent.

"Well, you should. And just think how you'll feel if she does die. How you'll feel about how you've been treating her."

"I don't have time for this."

Her father rolled his shoulders as if rolling her words off of him. He began to walk away from her.

"Just think about all that she's having to worry about," Christine called after him. "Just think about it. And try to take that into consideration when you talk to her."

Her father hadn't responded.

When her mother did die, her father lost it. He ran down to the prison basement and didn't come back up for two days. When Christine went to retrieve him, she found him a crying, huddled mess. She had no sympathy.

"It happened exactly like you said it would," he said. "Exactly what you said. I was waiting to talk about it, I was waiting until after. But I waited too long."

"Yes, you did," Christine said. "Now you have a new baby. You have a son who's just lost his mother. You need to come back up."

Christine was cold to her father for months afterward. Eventually, they reconciled, so, unlike her father with her mother, Christine did not have to face a reality in which her last words to her father were cruel or detached. Their last words had been positive. Things at the prisons were going well. The group had built a life for themselves and invited others to join them. Christine had stopped calling their camp "the prison" and started calling it "home."

"When Dad gets home, we can eat."

"How long do you think Michonne will stay home before going back out after the governor?"

"I'd be happy if I never left home again."

So, Christine didn't have to live with that guilt at least. Still, she had plenty to feel guilty about. She should never have been so cruel to her father, even for a few months. He had done so much to keep them all alive, had done what he thought was right. After those first two days in the basement, he had pulled himself together and been there for Carl and Judith. He had tried to be there for Christine too but she hadn't let him. It was such a short period of time in their lives—the time after her mother had died and Christine had been so furious—but she still worried about it now. Now that her father might be dead. Why had she wasted that time?

Tears ran down Christine's cheeks and landed on the top of Judith's head.

"Shit," Christine said. "Shit, shit, shit. Stop it. You don't have time for this. You can't afford it."

She imagined a world in which she never saw her father again, in which she never saw Carl again, in which she never knew if her little brother was alive or dead, in which she never found anyone from the group, never spoke to anyone again. Images of her and Judith walking along the train tracks forever flashed in her brain, interrupted only by visions of them dead along the road. Christine watched it unfurl as if from up above. First she fell, unable to get up, unable to protect Judith. She died slowly, seeing and then only hearing Judith wailing on the ground beside her. Next, the walkers came and tore at Judith's clothes, at her soft flesh and Christine was not alive to do anything about it.

She stuck her fist into her mouth, holding back a scream. She knew she should rest for the night. Even if she couldn't sleep, lying down would help her recoup some of her energy. With the little she was eating, she couldn't afford to be wasteful. She had to think of Judith, too, not just herself. Christine told herself these things but couldn't stay lying in the middle of the track. She needed to move. She couldn't sit still with her memories or her visions of the future. She sat up slowly, careful not to wake Judith, then stood up and began to walk.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

 _Song accompaniment: "Wolf," First Aid Kit_

When the sun rose, Christine fed Judith and chewed another mouthful of grass. She strayed from the tracks to search for berries or easily caught prey in the woods but found nothing, returning to the road and biting her cheeks to distract from her hunger. Around noon, she heard a rustling out in front of her. She leapt off the path and ducked behind a tree, trying to calm her breathing so as not to upset Judith.

A raggedy man and woman emerged from the woods on the other side of the tracks. Their faces looked sallow and ashen but, from her vantage point, Christine couldn't see if it was from dirt or other aspects of life on the road—lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of anything people needed to stay people. Part of her wanted to reveal herself to them, to ally herself with someone, anything not to be alone. Another part of her, however, knew that not all people could be trusted, and there was something about this pair that unnerved her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her knife, accidentally jostling Judith as she did so. Judith let out a small chirp. The man and woman turned their heads in Christine and Judith's direction. Judith began to cry in earnest. Christine tightened her grip on the knife.

"Lori," the woman cried, her eyes growing wide as she ran toward Christine.

Christine's own eyes widened at the name. Still, she stayed hidden.

The man was now calling Lori's name as well and both of them were running into Christine's side of the woods. Christine lifted her knife to shoulder height as they approached but, when the woman came around the other side of the tree to face her, Christine didn't act.

"Lori?" the woman said.

"No," Christine said slowly. "That's, that's my mother. Was my mother. Do you know her?"

The woman looked confused.

"That's my baby," she said. "Her name's Lori."

The woman held out her hands to accept the transfer of the baby. Christine pulled Judith back, placing her body in between the woman and her sister.

"No," Christine said. "This is my sister."

The man had found them now, too.

"Lori," he said, looking from Judith to the woman.

"She thinks the baby's hers," the woman said.

"That's Lori," the man said.

"I know."

"No, it's not," Christine said.

"That'sour daughter," the man said, pointing to Judith.

"No," Christine said, forcefully. Then, more gently, trying to calm them, "What happened to your daughter?"

"We lost her," the woman said, "And here she is."

She lunged for Judith but was too sluggish. Christine pulled Judith back and drew her knife higher.

"Try that again and I'll stab you," Christine said. "I don't want to, but I will."

"That's our daughter," the woman said, crying and holding onto the man.

"I'm sorry," Christine said. "I'm sorry for what happened to your daughter. But, this isn't her. Ok? Now, let us go, all right?"

Christine began to walk backward to the tracks, facing the man and woman and balancing Judith on her hip, as far away from these strangers as possible. The man was nodding at her while the woman wailed. All of a sudden, the man leapt forward and pushed Christine over. Christine twisted, bringing Judith forward so she wouldn't fall on her. As she did this, the man grabbed Judith and he and the woman ran deeper into the woods.

"Wait!" Christine yelled, hopping up and running after them. "Wait!"

The man looked over his shoulder and handed Judith to the woman, reaching into his pocket. Christine pulled out her gun. She breathed in deeply and closed one eye. She had never been a very good shot but managed to hit the man somewhere in the upper torso. He fell to the ground and the woman stopped to bend over him. Christine ran as fast as she could, dark smudges creeping into the corners of her field of vision. When she reached the pair, the woman was totally oblivious to her, kneeling on the ground over the man. Christine cocked the gun and placed it at the woman's temple.

"Stand up. Now," she said.

The woman did so, sobbing.

"Hand over the baby," Christine said.

The woman hesitated.

"Hand her over now or I'll shoot you!"

The woman's arms shook as she held Judith out. Christine grabbed her and held her close to her chest, feeling Judith's wispy hairs against her chin. The woman was still standing there, staring at them. Christine blinked once, twice, felt the warmth of her sister against her, and pulled the trigger. The bullet seared through the woman's skull and exited out the back. Christine heard it as it hit a tree.

"She's _my_ daughter," Christine said, leering down at the crumpled woman. "Not yours."

Then she turned around to inspect the man. He looked dead already. She took her knife and drove it through his skull with all her strength to prevent him from turning.

"You're ok," she said to Judith, who was surprisingly silent. "We're going to go back to that tree and pick up our bag. Then, we're going to keep going."

The magnitude of what she had done didn't hit Christine until that night, when she and Judith were again able to find a cabin. There was no bed so Christine sat leaning against the wall, surveying the walls around her. They looked solid. Judith was sleeping peacefully beside her, lying on top of the folded blanket. For the moment, they were safe. For the moment, she could let herself fall apart.

She held her hands in front of her. They were shaky but completely free of blood. They didn't look like hands that had just killed someone.

"Oh god," Christine whispered, ducking her head between her knees. "Oh god. Oh my god."

She began to rock back and forth.

"I had to do it," she said to herself, then to Judith. "I had to do it, Judith. You saw. You saw. They were going to take you away from me. They were going to take you away. But you're mine. You're my baby, right? Right?"

She heard the ring of the shot and then the thud as the bullet hit the tree. There was no sound in between these two, no sound as the bullet passed through the woman's head. Christine didn't know what noise that would make. She wondered if anyone did or if gunshots were always too loud for people to hear that kind of thing. She thought maybe they were. That seemed like a good design. No one would want to hear that—the sound of metal tearing through flesh.

"I'm a good person," Christine said. "I am. I _had_ to do that. I didn't want to. I had to." She looked over at a sleeping Judith. "We have to survive now, Judith. After that, we have to. We can't die out here. Otherwise, that, what just happened, it's not worth anything. We need to make it worth something. We need to earn that death. That woman died for us, ok? Do you understand that?"

The next morning, after Christine fed Judith her bottle, she dissolved some formula powder in one of the emptier water bottles and drank it. It tasted sickly sweet.

"I have to stay strong for you," she said. "If I don't, you'll die, and I will not let that happen. I promise you."

Judith looked at Christine without any expression.

"You're a good sharer, Judith," Christine said, shakily, trying to regain some sense of normalcy. It occurred to her that Judith, born into this world, would probably never know what normal was. She choked back the thought and held Judith up to pretend to nibble on one of her legs. "Num, num, num." Judith laughed uproariously so Christine did it again, not thinking of the consequences of being too loud. They were inside after all.

"Num, num, num." Judith continued laughing until Christine was laughing as well.

"You're the best baby, ever," she said. "Did you know that? Now, don't be modest. You know it's true. Come on, let's go."

Christine gathered their belongings, picked up Judith, and stepped outside, blinking in the sun.

"You can do this," she whispered to herself. "You have to."


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

 _Song accompaniment: "Amy aka Spent Gladiator 1," The Mountain Goats_

The days began to bleed into each other. When Christine tried to count, she thought it had been four days since she and Judith had found a place to take shelter in overnight, but it could have been five. Without the protection of a cabin or even shack, Christine had been forced to stay awake and keep watch. Most nights, she had just continued to walk. Judith slept better that way anyway—the post-apocalyptic version of a baby who only sleeps while being pushed in a stroller or taken for a car ride. By day four—or maybe five—they were down to one water bottle. Christine had not had more than a sip of water since drinking Judith's formula days earlier. She knew she had to stay strong for Judith, that if she didn't Judith would die, but she'd surely die earlier if Christine ate all their food.

They'd been spending more and more time in the woods, partially to search for food and partially to shield themselves from the sun, which had come to feel hotter over the past few waterless days. Besides shade, all Christine had found were leaves and worms, both of which she had eaten. She'd hear rabbits scurrying over the forest's layer of leaves and twigs but knew there was no way she'd be fast enough to catch them, not with Judith in her arms and—if she was honest with herself—probably not without Judith, either. At one point, Christine woke to find herself on her knees, the rough bark of a tree scraping against her forehead. Judith lay contentedly in her arms, apparently unharmed. Christine had no idea how long she had been asleep, or perhaps passed out. She shook her head stupidly, trying to clear the fog but only making herself dizzier. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped one arm around the tree and pulled herself up. She leaned against it for a minute before determining herself steady enough to continue on.

"Sorry about that," she said to Judith in a croaky voice.

Since setting out on their journey, Christine and Judith had passed several murky ponds but, without any container in which to boil the water, Christine had been too wary to drink any. Now, she thought dirty water was better than nothing and she was willing to wander farther and farther into the woods to find it.

A little over a week after the prison fell, Christine and Judith finally stumbled upon a pond, at least two miles from the railroad tracks. It was shallow and Christine knew that the stillness of the water didn't bode well for its cleanliness, but she also knew that she hadn't had a drink of water all day and that soon she'd be out of water for Judith's formula as well. It hadn't rained once and the sky was cloudless. This would have to do. Christine walked around the perimeter of the water, looking for walkers or corpses, anything that might contaminate it. The pond was surrounded by thick clusters of trees and Christine kept her head on a swivel. Aside from the pounding against the door of their cabin, she and Judith hadn't encountered any walkers yet and Christine reasoned that their luck had to run out soon. Then she laughed to herself. Was this really what constituted luck now a days? Feeling the weight of her apparently healthy sister in her arms, she answered her own question. Yes, yes she was lucky.

"I think we're safe," she said to Judith upon completing her search of the surrounding area. She hadn't seen anything, living or dead—or somewhere in between.

The plan, as Christine explained it to Judith, was that Christine would drink from the pond, giving her the strength to keep going. Then, if they were fortunate enough to find a flowing stream or some other less questionable source of drinking water, Christine would drink from that, wait a few hours to make sure she didn't get sick, and then collect water for Judith and her formula. If they didn't find a stream, they'd just have to go into town. Christine had been avoiding this option. Towns, even if they looked deserted, had plenty of hiding spots for walkers and fewer exit routes, too. She didn't like the idea of running from a herd of walkers with Judith in her arms, only to be stopped by a wall or row of houses. In order to fight them off, she'd have to find some way to hold Judith on her back, maybe rig something up with the duffel bag. She'd been dreaming up possibilities in her head during her nighttime walks, but the dreams always ended in nightmares, with a walker snatching Judith off Christine's back, ripping her sister away from her as punishment for letting Judith out of her arms and out of her sight. They'd stay out of the towns for as long as possible, but, if they had to venture in, Christine would figure something out. She decided not to share her fears with Judith. Even if Judith couldn't understand her, Christine thought it was better to say nice things to babies while they were growing up. Too many scared words could hurt their development, or so she suspected. Besides, Judith would likely be hearing enough scared words to last her a lifetime. Christine didn't need to add to that.

She kneeled at the water's edge and set Judith on her lap, bending her head down to drink straight from the pond. The water was gritty but cool. She pulled an empty bottle out of the duffel bag, filled it up, and drank its scummy contents in two gulps. Judith began to fuss as Christine moved to refill the bottle so Christine picked her up and shifted her to her left arm, struggling to hold her up high enough so that she didn't fall in the water. While filling the second bottle, she almost dropped Judith and had to free up her second arm to catch her, dropping the bottle in the pond.

"Shit," she said, reaching into the dark water for the bottle. "Shit," she said again as Judith began to cry. Still, Christine kept searching for the bottle, undeterred until Judith's cries grew into full-on screams.

"Judith, what's wrong?" she asked, turning to Judith just in time to see a walker looming over her shoulder.

Christine's breath caught in her throat as she felt the walker's cold fingers on her neck. She threw her elbow back without looking, hoping she wouldn't send it straight into the walker's teeth. The walker snarled and fell to the ground, giving Christine a chance to stand up and whirl around to face it. She reached for her knife as the walker stood up to charge again, unable to get a grip on it before the walker reached her. She kicked it in the stomach, sending it back again and allowing herself to grab the knife and position it at the right height to stab the walker through the skull. She angled her body slightly in order to make sure the walker would reach her before it reached Judith. She watched as the walker staggered toward them, took two steadying breaths, and plunged her knife into its eye, feeling the blade stop as it hit the brain. She kicked the walker again to make sure it fell backward and then turned to Judith.

She was still shrieking. Christine smoothed down Judith's hair and whispered comforting words to her until the shrieks calmed to almost silent cries. Christine had never seen a baby cry silently before but perhaps this was a skill babies in this new world would have to learn. Maybe it was an evolutionary trait that would develop as all the noisy babies died out.

"No," Christine said aloud, dismissing the thought.

She placed a foot on the walker's neck as she pulled her knife out. Then she wiped the blade on her pants and slung the bag over her shoulder, keeping the knife in her hand.

"There might be more of them," she said to Judith. "We have to go."

She practically ran the rest of the way back to the tracks, unsure if the rustling and scraping she thought she heard all around her signaled the presence of animals, humans, or walkers. Perhaps the noises were all in her head.

She and Judith reached the road just before sundown. Christine collapsed, her knees aching as they hit the wooden, railway ties. Then, she began to vomit.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

 _Song accompaniment: "Spent Gladiator 2," The Mountain Goats_

Christine vomited for the next two days and nights. Most of what came up was water, flecked with the white powder of the formula. When even that was gone, she began to dry-heave, clutching Judith with both arms as her body suddenly convulsed. At night, Christine was finally forced to rest. She still couldn't sleep but she couldn't continue walking either. Instead, she would sit curled in on herself, gripping her gun with both hands, her knife lying on one side of her, Judith lying on the other.

"You're fine," she would lie to herself in the morning. "You have to keep going."

The second day of her sickness, as she straightened back up from another round of vomiting, Christine noticed a dirty, wooden sign. The letters were faded but, when she walked closer, she saw they read: "TERMINUS. SANCTUARY FOR ALL. COMMUNITY FOR ALL. THOSE WHO ARRIVE SURVIVE." Beneath the sign was a map showing where all the railway lines met.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

She walked right up to the sign and leaned her head against it, feeling its coarseness as the dirt that coated it stuck to her sweaty forehead.

"Thank you," she said to no one in particular. Perhaps, God. She had once been the most religious person in her family but, since the outbreak, she hadn't been so sure. If she was able to find Carl and her father, though, maybe she'd change her mind. Maybe that would mean something. Well, it _would_ mean something, of course. It would mean everything. But, maybe it would mean something for God and religion and Christine's relationship with them both. She'd have to reevaluate when the time came.

And it seemed that it might. Christine was sure that if her father and Carl had run into those signs, they would have headed to this terminus, if for no other reason than to find her and Judith. The other members of their group too. She was sure of it. She pictured Maggie—her best friend since the outbreak had greatly narrowed her social circle but also a friend that she felt she could have made in the old world too—sitting on a porch with Glenn, drinking lemonade. Maggie's sister Beth would be there too and Michonne. Michonne knew how to survive alone, had done it before. She would have made it to Terminus. Sasha and Tyreese too. They were good at surviving together and, if they weren't together, Christine figured they could survive on their own as well. They were like her and Carl that way.

"We're going to find them, Judith," she said. "All of them."

The morning after the sickness passed, Christine was left feeling weak but hopeful. She mixed some formula powder into the last of the clean water and fed it to Judith. Then she reached a hand into the container and scooped the powder straight into her mouth. She choked down a cough, swallowed the powder, and did it again.

"We need to go back into the woods," Christine said to Judith as she changed her diaper. "Don't worry, we'll be fine. We need to find clean water."

The green, orange, and brown of the early autumn forest swam in front of Christine's eyes as she walked. Often, she would have to rest against a tree before she could continue, but she never stood still for longer than a minute. The quest for water had taken on new importance now that it was affecting Judith too. Sometimes, Christine thought she heard faint pops in the distance, like gunshots. She couldn't be sure that the sounds were real, though. They grew louder as her vision grew fuzzier. They may have just been creations of a dehydrated, hungry, sleep-deprived brain. Even if the pops were real, she told herself, that didn't mean they had to be gunshots and, even if they were gunshots, that didn't have to mean anything bad for Dad and Carl. It didn't have to.

Christine continued walking, picking up the pace as much as she could when she heard the sound of water rushing over rocks.

"Here we go, Ju—" she began to say before the popping sounds stopped her. They were growing louder, more unmistakably like gunshots. The noise seemed to be coming from just ahead of them, right where Terminus should have been. Christine shut her eyes tightly to keep from crying.

"It's fine," she said. "Terminus could still be fine. We don't know yet. It could be fine."

Christine knew, though, that they had additional problems. The shots could be heard from quite a distance. If she and Judith found themselves positioned between a herd of walkers and Terminus that could mean trouble for them. The safest option was for them to head back to the tracks. They could come back in search of water when everything settled down. Feeling the dryness of her tongue and still tasting the sweet powder that she had not had enough saliva to completely swallow, Christine turned her back to the sound of the stream. She began to stumble but didn't stop to rest. She couldn't. Not yet.

"Just a few steps more," Christine whispered to herself before a rustling caused her to turn and look behind her.

At least fifty snarling walkers were rambling toward them.

"No," Christine whispered. "No."

She resisted the urge to scream and began to run as fast as she could—which was not very. With each step, she feared she'd fall, dropping Judith and landing on top of her. Still, it was better than what waited behind them. The tracks came into view and Christine wondered what she would do when she reached them. Perhaps she was better off staying in the forest and finding a tree to hide behind. She veered to the left only to be met by the green skin and sunken eyes of a walker. She grunted and stabbed it in the head, reaching for her gun as she ran away from it. The pack was getting closer. She turned to shoot at them as she ran, hitting a few of them in the chest, but none in the head. The ground began to spin underneath her and Christine wondered if she could protect Judith from the walkers by hiding her somewhere and then leading the pack away. She'd just have to hope that someone—a person good enough to take on the added danger of a crying baby—would find Judith, that Judith would not be left there to starve, or worse, be eaten. Christine began to sob but continued to run, firing behind her without even looking. She tripped over a twig, somehow managing to move her body so that she hit the forest floor before Judith. She felt the tug of a walker's hand at her foot and heard the groans of the rest of the pack.

"Oh, God," she said, a final prayer, just in case.

The shots from Terminus rang out even louder. The walkers began peeling off to the right, toward the sound. Christine sat up and rammed her knife through the back of the walker's skull. It fell with a thud on her legs but she pulled herself free and continued to stumble onward, changing course to head back to the tracks. Two stragglers had continued to follow her so she hid behind a tree, jumping out to stab them as they approached. The second one hadn't been dead for long. Her skin was still intact, not hanging loosely from her face as it did with most of the walkers. Christine could clearly make out the way the girl used to look. She was young and small, no more than twelve. She wore a blue bow in her hair, something she—or a parent—had taken the trouble of placing there even amidst all this. Maybe that preoccupation with beauty was what had killed her. Maybe it was what had kept her alive for so long. Without understanding why, Christine carefully untied the bow from the girl's hair, rolled it up, and put it in her pocket.

She continued toward the tracks, holding Judith out as she walked in order to inspect her. Miraculously, she looked fine. Just steps from the road, Christine saw two fuzzy figures—one of them slight, the other tall and big. She squinted, trying to make them out. Could they be?

She stumbled onto the tracks, holding Judith out to the two figures.

"Take her," she said. "Please."

Then a flash of red, followed by an encroaching blackness and she fell to the ground.


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

 _Song accompaniment: "Devil's Resting Place," Laura Marling_

She woke to find Tyreese bending over her.

"It _was_ you," she muttered, smiling slightly. Then another thought occurred to her and she sat up so quickly she almost rammed her head into Tyreese's. She would have, had he not pulled back at the last moment. "Where's Judith?" she said.

"I set her down over there," Tyreese said pointing to an old, dirty cooler in the corner of the room. "I laid a blanket down. It's nicer than it looks."

Christine nodded, taking a moment to survey her surroundings. They were in an old cabin. The floors were dirty and she could feel their roughness against the backs of her legs. Cardboard lined the walls and the corrugated metal of the roof was curled upwards, creating a gap between the ceiling and walls and allowing cold air to funnel through. Christine shivered. The sweat on the back of her neck began to cool, making her head ache. She thought she saw another shadowy figure leaning against the wall but couldn't be sure. The room started to spin in front of her and she lay back, propping herself up on her elbows. Tyreese pulled a water bottle out of his bag and offered it to her.

Christine shook her head. "We need to save it for Judith."

"We have plenty. Drink."

Christine acquiesced, taking a small sip first before downing the rest of the bottle so quickly it made her cough.

"Thank you," she said. "So, you made it out?"

Tyreese nodded.

"Did you see anyone else get out?" Christine asked. "Like my dad or Carl? Did you see them at all?"

"I didn't, but—"

"Is this a reunion?" a voice called from the wall, reminding Christine of the figure's presence.

Christine sat up more slowly this time, staring at the source of the voice—a greasy looking man wearing a blue baseball cap and an uneven haircut. Tyreese turned to look at the man but said nothing. Christine noticed what looked like a seatbelt wrapped around the man's wrists, tying them together.

"We think Carl and probably your dad are being held at Terminus," Tyreese said. "Michonne too."

"Being held?"

"They're not what they seem."

"Is anyone?" the man in the hat asked.

Tyreese ignored him.

"What do they do to people?" Christine asked. Her breath caught in her throat, each inhalation shallower than the last. She wasn't sure whether to be overjoyed by this confirmation—or at least mighty good sign—that Carl and her father were alive or terrified by whatever fate awaited them at Terminus. It didn't seem right to come so close to one another, only to have their opportunity at reunion snatched away at the last moment, to have them killed there while she waited just outside the walls. Then again, so much of this new world wasn't right. Christine clasped her hands below her diaphragm and breathed more deeply.

"They… they kill people," Tyreese said. "But, Carol—she and I were travelling together—she's rescuing them."

"Just Carol? Against how many others?"

"Over forty," the man said.

"She has a plan," Tyreese said.

"Carol's tough," Christine said more for her own benefit than anything else. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to hyperventilate.

"She is," Tyreese agreed without smiling.

"You two friends, then?" the man asked. "I used to have friends."

"Is he from Terminus?" Christine asked.

"He is," Tyreese said.

Christine nodded, sat up, and slowly rose to walk over to the man. She kneeled in front of him, unsure what to say now that she was next to him.

The man laughed. "You must be related to the kid in the hat. You look just like him."

"What did you do to him?" Christine asked. She leaned forward in an attempt to be threatening but immediately regretted it. Her face was now just inches from the man's and she found herself inexplicably frightened to be so close. There was nothing particularly alarming about the man's appearance, nothing to indicate the evil that lay within. He was ill-kempt, but so was everyone these days. He had puffy bags underneath each eye as if he hadn't slept in days, but Christine had to assume she looked similar. Perhaps the most frightening thing was how normal the man looked, how anyone could be an enemy now, even people promising sanctuary.

The man narrowed his eyes, studying Christine just as closely as she was studying him. Then he threw his head back and laughed again, a short, hollow laugh. " _I_ didn't do anything," he said. "The people I live with on the other hand… who can say."

"Is he alive?"

"He was last I knew. With all those shots, though, who knows. I left Terminus an hour ago. A lot can happen in that time."

"You better pray he's fine," Christine said.

"Or what? Are you gonna kill me?"

"No one has to die today," Tyreese said, turning from the window.

"If you believe that," the man said, "Then it's definitely gonna be you."

Christine had to agree with the man. She wanted to kill him then and there. Still, the sound of her bullet shooting through that woman's head and hitting the tree behind her echoed in her ears. The sight of the woman lying on the ground, blood running down each strand of hair, like red highlights flashed before her eyes. Worst of all was the memory of how she herself had responded to it all—with a cold composure that she knew, or believed, or wanted to know, was necessary at the time, but felt ruthlessly casual now. She wondered how many acts like that stood between who she was now and who the man in front of her had become. She wasn't going to kill him.

Christine was pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of Judith crying, but, as she moved to comfort Judith, the baby quieted and Christine refrained from picking her up, not wanting to disturb her calm.

"That baby's going to get you killed," the man said. "Then again, you're the kind of people who rescue babies. That's kind of like rescuing an anchor when you're stuck without a boat in the middle of the ocean. People like you are dead already."

"She's my sister," Christine said, positioning herself between the man and Judith.

"Your sister? Really? And the hat kid's your brother? Your parents really spread them out. Your poor mother. Just when she thought she was done, another—"

"Don't talk about my mother," Christine snapped.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did she not make it? I guess the baby's already gotten someone killed."

Without thinking, Christine lunged at the man and slapped him across the face with the back of her hand. The man blinked several times then stuck his tongue out to taste the blood that was gathering in the corner of his lips.

"I didn't think you'd hit that hard," he said. "You look spent. Guess you're pretty sensitive about your mom, huh? Listen, we've all lost people. My whole family's dead. I think it's time you toughened up and moved on, don't you?"

Christine felt angry tears pooling just above her cheeks.

"Christine," Tyreese called, "Stop talking to him."

He motioned for her to join him at the window. Christine was about to decline, choosing to keep watch over Judith instead, when she saw the walkers limping toward the door. At least five with more potentially on the way. She jumped up and ran over to Tyreese.

"We just stay inside and we'll be fine," she said, her words more of a question than a statement.

"Yeah," Tyreese said. "If we have to do anything, you stay with Judith and I'll go out there and take care of it."

"Tyreese, I'll help you. I—"

"Someone needs to stay with her."

"I'm happy to do it," the man from Terminus said, running over to the cooler and reaching in for Judith.

Christine started toward him but was held back by Tyreese who was staring at the man's hands. Christine followed his eyes and saw that the man had one hand on the back of Judith's head and another on her chest. She started forward again but the man yelled at her to get back, his grip on Judith's head tightening.

"Put your weapons on the ground," the man yelled. "Right now."

Tyreese and Christine both lowered their knives and guns. The walkers were banging against the windows and door. Christine backed toward them, her arm stretched out in her sister's direction.

"Please don't hurt her," she said.

"Get out."

"What?"

"Go outside," the man said.

"Please," Christine begged.

"Get. Out."

Christine looked at Tyreese who nodded at her before opening the door and backing out, straight into the pack of walkers. She followed him, slowly, her eyes trained on Judith. She closed the door, shutting her sister in, away from one danger and right next to another. Spinning around, she saw Tyreese already engaged with a walker, bashing its head against the side of the cabin. She heard snarling behind her and instinctively reached for her knife, a knife that was lying on the floor of the cabin.

"Push them toward me," Tyreese said.

"No."

"Just do it!"

Christine nodded, running behind the walker and ramming her whole body against it, sending its reaching arms and gnashing teeth straight at Tyreese. Convinced that she had just killed her friend, Christine watched in amazement as Tyreese grabbed the walker by the shoulders and slammed it against the cabin.

"Send me another."

Christine turned to see two walkers coming at her. She kicked one back, then shoved the other at Tyreese. She circled the first one, readying herself to throw it Tyreese's way. When she got a hold on the back of the walker's shirt, she looked up to find Tyreese flanked by two walkers on either side of him. Searching the area desperately for some kind of weapon, she saw a small tree that had broken in half, its bottom portion jutting out from the ground to form a spear. She began to run toward it, pushing the walker in front of her, dodging its attempts to reach back and scratch her. At the tree, she jumped up as high as she could, landing on the walker's back and forcing its body onto the pointed trunk, which pierced through its sternum and exited just to the left of the spine. Christine cringed, imagining the wood splintering inside the cavity of her own chest. She pushed down on the walker once more to make sure it couldn't escape, then surveyed her surroundings again. Finding no walkers, she headed to the cabin just in time to see Tyreese shooting through the door and tackling the man from Terminus. Christine ran to Judith and scooped her up in her arms as Tyreese wrestled his knife out of the man's grasp and held it to his throat.

"Now you kill me," the man said. "That's how it works, right?"

Tyreese's hand shook, his knife knicking the man and drawing blood. He hesitated before throwing the knife away from him.

"I won't," Tyreese said, raising his fist. "I won't."

Again and again, he repeated this, punctuating each phrase with a hard blow to the man's face. Unnoticed by either Tyreese or the man, Christine walked over and picked up the discarded knife. "I won't," she heard Tyreese yell again. She lay a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"I will," she whispered, sinking the knife into the man's heart. She watched him sputter as blood spurted from his mouth. He placed a hand on her arm, desperately seeking human contact. Christine pulled away sharply and watched the man's hand fall to the ground. Still holding Judith in one arm, she bent an ear to the man's chest. His heart had stopped beating. She nodded, sat up, and plunged the knife through his eye and into his brain. She held the knife out to Tyreese but instead of coming towards her, he stood up and backed away, a look of horror on his face.

"That had to be done," Christine said, walking over to him and sliding the knife into his hand. "Take it."

They spent the next hour sitting on opposite sides of the cabin, trying not to look at each other. Every sound from Terminus made Christine shudder, but the growing quiet scared her even more. Out the window, she could see black smoke rising into the air.

"I bet they're all right," Tyreese finally said.

Christine tried to smile but couldn't. She began to cry. Silently. Just like Judith, she too had adapted to their new environment. She blinked quickly and wiped at her eyes.

"If they don't make it," she said, speaking more to herself than Tyreese, "I'll still have Judith. And I'll keep her alive, no matter what. I'll be ok because I have to be. To keep her safe, I have to be."

Christine bowed her head to kiss Judith before looking up at the sound of familiar voices outside.


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7

 _Song accompaniment: "I Was Young When I Left Home," Bob Dylan_

Christine stood up and staggered outside, holding onto the doorframe for support as Carl and her father ran toward her. She collapsed into her father's arms as he pulled her in so tightly she worried about crushing Judith.

"Thank god," he said and Christine wondered if he meant it figuratively or literally.

She handed Judith to her father and fell to her knees, hard, intending to bring herself closer to Carl's level in order to pull him into a hug. She had forgotten how much he had grown, though, and found herself much shorter than him. Too overcome to stand back up, she pulled him down more roughly than she meant to. On the ground, Carl flung himself at her with equal abandon, almost knocking her backwards.

"I love you so much," she said into the top of Carl's head, now weeping without any concern for her volume.

"I love you too," Carl said.

Then their father was on the ground with them too, holding Judith on his lap and spreading his arms around both Christine and Carl.

"We thought you were dead," her father said.

"I'm not," Christine said, feeling stupid afterward.

Her father made a strangled sound, somewhere between a cry and a laugh. Christine looked from Carl to her father and back again, hardly believing they were really there. She held onto them tightly as if they might disappear as soon as contact was lost. Time slowed.

Eventually, Christine felt herself standing up. Everything around her was just a bit unreal and the earth underneath her feet was unsteady. She stumbled toward Michonne and hugged her wordlessly. Then she saw Maggie.

"Hey kid," Maggie said, before opening her arms for Christine to rush into them.

"Hey."

They wrapped their arms around each other, teetering from side to side. When Christine finally felt ready to let go, Maggie was still clinging to her. Christine peered over Maggie's shoulder, looking for Beth. Instead she saw Glenn who shook his head sadly, reading the question in her eyes.

"You ok?" Christine asked Maggie.

Maggie sniffled, releasing Christine from the hug. "Yeah. I will be."

That night, they all gathered around the fire eating rabbits too small to satisfy them but smiling nonetheless. Christine kept finding herself leaning against her father like she did when she was little. When she caught herself and drew away, he seemed disappointed so eventually she just stayed there, leaning into her father as Carl leaned into her and they all passed Judith back and forth so often she became frustrated and began to cry.

As the group prepared for sleep, laying out the few blankets and coats they had around the fire, Christine turned to Carol.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't know what I would have done without…" She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. "I'm so grateful, Carol. So, so grateful."

Carol nodded, looking far away. Christine hugged her quickly, feeling Carol stiffen. Carol had left the prison for reasons that Christine's father had never fully explained. Christine imagined whatever wounds had been opened before might take time to heal.

"I'm so glad you're back with us," Christine said.

She heard the words' inadequacy but also sensed that Carol was eager to be alone. She smiled at Carol and then left to join her father on the outskirts of the circle, where he sat keeping watch, his hand resting on the gun in his holster.

"Hey," he said as she sat down next to him.

"Hey."

They had hardly spent a moment apart since their reunion but had also hardly spoken a word. Christine had so much to say, she didn't know where to begin. For now, it was enough just to be together. She felt comfortable in the silence. Her father, however, looked pained, his lips slightly parted as if he were about to say something.

Finally he said, "I never should have left you at the prison."

"Dad?"

"I never would have if I knew you and Judith were still alive. I never would have done that."

"I know."

"We found Judith's carrier and your jacket. They were both covered in blood and we, we just assumed. We shouldn't have. I should have looked for you."

"Dad, it's ok," Christine said.

When the shooting at the prison had started, Christine had found herself pulled between Carl and Judith, unsure of which one to run to, stuck in place. As she watched Carl aim his rifle through the chain link fence, pull the trigger, and send a bullet into the head of one of the governor's men, she realized Carl would be fine without her and turned on her heels to find Judith inside the prison. In the chaos, Judith had been left alone on the Cell Block A catwalk, somehow sound asleep in her carrier. Christine had packed a duffel bag, draped her coat over her arm, and left with Judith, still asleep in the carrier. Outside, bullets buzzed past Christine's ears. She tried to find Carl and her father but couldn't. When a bullet pierced Judith's carrier, Christine held her breath. Peering inside the carrier to find her baby sister crying but unscathed, Christine pulled Judith out and held her against her chest, hunching over her in hopes of catching any bullets before they made their way to Judith. She considered taking Judith and running but she couldn't bring herself to leave Carl and her father behind. Instead, she conducted one more scan for them and then took Judith back inside to hide. Still recovering from her momentary terror over the bullet reaching so close to Judith, she must have left her jacket and Judith's carrier on the ground. For an hour, she cradled Judith, begging her to stop crying as the prison walls crumbled around them. When the noise outside finally subsided, Christine ventured out to find the prison deserted—by people at least. Herds of walkers streamed through the fallen west gate and Christine had no choice but to take Judith out the east gate and run for the woods. She wanted to search for Carl and her father, to find their bodies at the very least, to know what happened but couldn't put Judith's life in jeopardy, couldn't lose her too.

Christine recounted all of this to her father, wondering how he'd feel about her leaving Carl to go hide away from the danger with Judith. "I don't know where the blood on the carrier and jacket came from," she concluded her story.

Her father stared into the distance for a minute before speaking. "That must have been terrifying."

"I'm sure it was for everyone," Christine said. Then, more quickly, she added, "I can still see Carl fighting right on the front lines while I run away from him. I know he's growing up but he's still, he's still so young and I just left him."

Her father bent his head in order to catch her eye. "You did the right thing, Chrissy. Judith would be dead if not for you. You kept her safe."

"I did." Christine turned away from her father's gaze. "I killed people."

"Walkers?"

"No. People. Living people. Two of them."

Christine was purposefully looking away from her father but heard him inhale quickly. Then she heard a slow exhalation and watched him out of the corner of her eye as he nodded very slowly, adjusting to this new information.

"If you did," he said. "I'm sure you had to."

"Yeah," Christine said. "I think so. Those poor people. They must have lost their daughter. They thought Judith was their baby. They kept, they kept calling her Lori. I should have run away. But, I just, I heard the name Lori and I thought maybe they knew Mom. It was stupid."

Christine felt tears forming in her eyes and was torn between hiding them from her father and looking to him for reassurance. She chose to look at him and saw that his eyes were watery too.

"No, that's not stupid," he said.

"They kept trying to grab her and I just kept trying to convince them that she wasn't theirs and finally they pushed me down and took her. I ran after them and I shot the man first because he wasn't carrying Judith and he fell so the woman stopped and then I told her to hand me Judith and she did, but I shot her anyway. I had to, though. I had to. I couldn't have her following me, trying to get Judith back. I mean, she was crazy. They were both crazy. It wasn't their fault but they were dangerous."

"I'm sorry you had to do that," her father said. "But you did have to do it. Sometimes we have to do these things now."

"I was so angry," Chrissy said. "I… I think I killed the woman so she wouldn't follow us but I also just… in that moment, I just hated her. Hated her for trying to take Judith away from me."

"That's how it feels when people threaten the people you love, the people you're supposed to protect. It can make you hateful."

"But, I don't want to be like that."

"I'm like that," her father said.

Christine knew this was true and didn't know how to respond. Her father being like that, his hate for anyone who threatened his family was probably what had kept them all alive for so long, but it had also made him brutal. He had been trying in the last year to change. Christine could see it in the way he distanced himself from a leadership position at the prison and dedicated himself to farming with Carl. Still, there was a softness and humor he had while Christine was growing up that was lost now, or at least buried. She hoped that Judith would someday uncover it.

"I started thinking of Judith as my daughter," she said, hoping her father wouldn't notice, or at least wouldn't object to, her deflection of the previous topic. "I know she's not. I would never want her to forget Mom. I just… maybe it made it easier to do the things I did to keep her alive."

The last sentence made Christine pause, thinking about all the things her father had to do to keep her and Carl alive, to keep Judith alive. All the brutality. She wondered if he was thinking about this too.

Eventually, he said, "No, she's not your daughter, but you protected her like she was and that's a good thing, Chrissy. You've been doing that since she was born."

Christine nodded, wondering what a child kept alive by hate would grow into.

"I killed a man from Terminus too," she said. She had actually forgotten before. It had felt so natural, so necessary. "I don't even feel bad about it."

"And you shouldn't," her father said, gripping his gun so tightly his knuckles glowed white.

Christine wasn't sure this was true. Looking at her father's fist wrapped around the gun, she said, "Sometimes I worry that Judith's surrounded by too much hate. Carl too."

"No," her father said. "She's surrounded by love. All these people who would die for her, kill for her. That's what love means now."

"That's not all it means, though."

"No. It's not all."

Christine looked at her father. He was squinting as if trying to make out an object in the distance but it was too dark to see much further than your hand. Christine thought—not for the first time since the apocalypse all but did away with light "pollution"—that anyone volunteering for night watch was really just volunteering to be the first one killed in the event of an attack. In the darkness, a guard wouldn't notice a human or zombie until the danger was right on top of them. They could warn the rest of the group but the chances of actually fending off the attacker were slim—especially if the threat were human. Christine tried not to think about how often her father served as the night watch.

The narrowing of her father's eyes made him look on edge, ready to shoot at any stray noise. More than anything though, he just looked tired. And sad. Defeated. _Judith and I are back,_ Christine wanted to say, to yell. _Isn't that enough of a victory for you? Aren't we enough?_

Christine was about to ask what was wrong when her father spoke.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there when those people tried to take Judith."

"What?"

"I'm sorry you had to shoot them. I don't like it when you and Carl have to do that kind of thing."

"It's fine," Christine said, knowing it was not. "It's like you said. That's just what we have to do now. To protect people."

"Yeah. But I'd prefer it if it didn't have to be you."

"You can't shield us from it."

"I know."

"You don't have to worry about it, Dad. Maybe with Carl, but not with me. It's just part of being a grownup now, isn't it?"

Christine watched as her father bowed his head. "I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry that it's like that now. It's not what I wanted for you. Or for Carl. Or Judith."

"I mean," Christine began, unsure of how to continue. "It's not what I wanted either but it's fine… I mean, it's not, but it's… we're making do. And it's not your fault."

Her father nodded slightly, then continued staring forward.

"Dad, it's really not," Christine said. "How could any of this be your fault?"

She asked the question almost angrily. She was tired of her father's guilt. They all carried so much guilt around with them that the weight of it sometimes felt unbearable. Perhaps that was the burden of surviving. The guilt. There was no way to go through life without it, not anymore.

Christine studied her father's face. He hadn't responded to her question and she wondered if he heard the anger in her voice. For the first time, her father seemed old to her. In the dark, she couldn't make out his features clearly, couldn't see any wrinkles or the gray in his beard, but there was something about the way he carried himself. Both rigid with tension and shrinking inward. He noticed Christine looking at him, his eyes darting to the left quickly to survey her from his periphery, but Christine didn't look away. She hadn't seen him smile in so long. Even when they first saw each other back at the cabin, he had worn more a look of relief than joy. Christine wanted to tell him he could relax now, let his guard down, but she was unconvinced of the truthfulness of this statement and knew her father wouldn't believe her even if it were true.

Christine wanted to say something helpful but wasn't sure what that something would be. Ever since the zombie outbreak, words had been harder. Christine and her father used to have long, rambling conversations. She always felt that he told her things he couldn't tell anyone else. Sometimes, she could tell he was hesitant to tell her what was on his mind, knowing—or at least thinking—that, as her father, he should keep the information to himself, but he always told her anyway. Christine didn't mind. Until she moved away to college, she told him everything too. Not all their conversations were deep either. Sometimes they would just "shoot the shit," as her father called it, although her mother didn't appreciate the phrase.

"So," Christine said casually, tilting her body so she was mostly facing her father but still not blocking his line of vision. "I've been thinking about developmental stages for babies."

Her father turned his head.

"You've been what?" he asked.

"Thinking about developmental stages for babies," Christine repeated.

"Why?"

"Because Judith's a baby."

"Right. But why now?"

"I've been thinking about this for a while," Christine said. "I just thought I'd bring it up now that we have a free moment."

"That's what you call this?" her father asked. "A free moment?"

"Are you particularly busy?"

A gust of air left her father's mouth in a half-laugh.

"No, I guess not," he said.

"Like, when should babies start talking?

"I don't remember. You learned to talk late." Her father paused before smiling impishly and saying, "You've been making up for lost time ever since."

"Excuse me?" Christine asked. "I do _not_ talk that much."

"Is that a joke?"

"No it's not a joke," Christine said.

Her father ignored her.

"And ever since you started talking, you've been telling me what to do and disagreeing with me and sometimes I wish we could just go back to the good old days before you learned how to form sentences. That's why I'm not too worried about Judith. If she spends enough time listening to you, she'll learn to talk in no time. And argue and—"

"Are you done?" Christine said. "Damn. _I'm_ the one who talks all the time?"

Her father chuckled and wrapped his arm around her.

"I wouldn't change you for anything, Chrissy. You know that, right?"

"That's a wise move, old man, because I'm awesome." Christine paused before adding, "I do know that, too. Thanks, Dad."

Christine felt herself relaxing, her sigh turning into a yawn.

"You should sleep," her father said.

"I'm fine. I'll stay up with you."

"You should. You look exhausted."

Christine nodded. She still felt tired and somewhat sick but had grown accustomed to feeling this way. She supposed with the rest of the group, together, however, it might not have to be like that. Just as she had wanted to tell her father, she could afford to let her guard down now, at least a little. She gave him a final hug before standing up to leave.

After a few steps, she heard him call her back. His face was serious but also resolute, less sad than before.

"Chrissy, if we get separated again, you take care of Judith. Carl too, if he's with you. You keep yourselves safe and I'll come find you."

Christine's heart beat painfully against her chest at the thought of being separated again.

"What if you can't find us?" she asked.

"I will."

"You don't know that."

"I do. After the prison, I never thought I'd see you and Judith again, but I was wrong. We'll always find our way back to each other. I know that now."

"You can't know."

"I can. As long as I'm alive, I _will_ come find you."

Her father's confidence pushed the need to comfort him out of Christine's mind.

"What if we're not alive?" she asked.

"You will be. I'll make sure of it. We have to stick close together, not like at the prison. It wasn't safe back there. It's never safe. I've learned that. But if we're careful, if we stay together, we'll be ok."

Christine tried to keep her uncertainty from creeping across her face.

"Do you trust me?" her father asked.

"Of course."

Christine continued her walk back to the rest of the group, wondering if this was true. She thought about how quickly she had responded to the question. Was it just for her father's benefit? She turned around to look at her father again. She smiled at him even though she knew he wouldn't be able to see her in the dark. She did trust him, she realized, feeling safer than she had in weeks.


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8

 _Song accompaniment: "Half Acre," Hem_

Back around the dying fire, Christine found Carl and Judith sleeping on the blanket she had taken from one of the cabins. Carl had wrapped Judith in his jacket and was shivering as he held her. Christine took her sweater off and lay it over Carl, curling up next to him, her back to his. Next to her, Maggie stared straight ahead, awake in the arms of a sleeping Glenn. Christine wondered what Maggie saw when she closed her eyes at night. Was it Hershel thrashing around in the grass, blood spurting from his neck or the millions of unknown possibilities that could have befallen Beth? Which was worse? The knowing or the not knowing?

"Maggie," she whispered. "Do you want to talk about—"

Maggie shook her head. "No. Just uh…"

Without finishing her sentence, Maggie stretched her hand out to Christine who grabbed hold of it. Christine wondered if she should say anything else but before she could figure out what to say, Maggie had smiled at her and closed her eyes.

Christine was cold without her sweater but tried to focus on the warmth of Maggie's hand and the heat radiating from Carl. The second night after her mother died, when her father was still hiding in the basement, they had all slept like this, wrapped up in each other. Beth had offered to take Judith for the night and Christine was sitting alone on the catwalk, her knees curled into her chest, when Maggie approached her.

"How are you doing?" Maggie had asked.

Christine responded with another question. "Is Carl asleep?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I'm worried about him."

"Yeah?" Maggie sat down next to Christine, theirs shoulders touching.

"I don't think he's cried at all since it happened. That's not normal."

"I don't think you've cried either," Maggie said.

"I can't," Christine said, her voice breaking.

"Why not?"

"There's so much to do. My dad's god knows where. And now there's a new baby and Carl. I mean, he had to shoot her, Maggie. What does that do to a person? And he's so young. What's that going to do to him growing up? I just… he needs me and the baby needs me and… I just can't."

"We can help you, Christine."

Christine felt tears form in her eyes as she looked at Maggie.

"Are you sure Carl's asleep?" she asked.

"I'm sure."

"Ok, ok." Christine nodded slowly, then more quickly and vigorously. Finally she stopped and dissolved into gasping sobs. "What am I gonna do, Maggie?"

Maggie pulled Christine into a hug, stroking her hair as she cried.

"What am I going to do?"

Christine felt herself panicking, her breath growing raspy. Maggie released her from the hug and started rubbing her back in slow circles.

"We'll help you. It'll be ok."

As Christine's breathing slowed, Maggie put an arm around her.

"I wasn't ready," Christine said. "I've been worrying about this for months. I thought I'd be ready."

"You never can be for something like this."

"I feel terrible. And I can't believe it. I can't even believe that this is happening. That it did happen. What's going to happen when I do believe it? When it becomes real? I can't… I don't know if I'll be able to keep going."

"You will be."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're strong."

"I'm not."

Maggie shook her head. "You are. You are so strong. But you don't have to be that way all the time. That's why we're here. To help you."

"I'm so sad," Christine said. "I'm just so sad."

"I know."

Maggie pulled Christine in closer and Christine leaned her head against Maggie's shoulder, wishing that she could stay there forever, that she could avoid having to face the future ahead of her. Just as she was beginning to close her eyes, Christine saw Carl coming up the stairs. She immediately sat up and wiped at her eyes.

"Carl?"

"Are you ok?" he asked.

"I'm fine." Christine sniffled a bit. "Are you ok?"

Carl nodded and sat down next to Christine. He moved to put his arm around her but couldn't reach all the way and ended up resting a hand on the back of her neck. The feeling of Carl's small hand on her neck made Christine cry more, but she quickly blinked the tears away.

"It's fine if you're not," Christine said. "Not ok, I mean. We can talk about it."

"I just wanted to see you," Carl said. "Is that all right?"

"Of course it is."

Carl looked up at Christine, surprising her with the depth of concern in his eyes. He scanned across her face as if looking for clues. Christine supposed this new world with people dying and adults falling to pieces all around him must have been very confusing for him. Then she reconsidered. This wasn't giving Carl enough credit. He didn't look confused at all, not about what she was feeling at least. More about how to help and she was just as lost as he was in this regard. She closed her eyes, unable to keep a few tears from escaping from beneath her eyelids. Carl stared at her intently, looking like he was considering something. Then he moved his hand from her back and reached up to her face to gently wipe away her tears. He smiled slightly, nodded at her, and lay down, putting his head in her lap. Christine bent down to kiss him on the top of the head.

"Of course it's ok," she said, running her fingers through Carl's hair. "Try to sleep now."

Carl closed his eyes and Christine felt Maggie draw her arm away as she moved to stand up.

"Wait," Christine said. "Are you…"

"Do you want me to stay?"

Christine did but didn't feel like she could ask for that.

"I'll stay," Maggie said, sitting back down and entwining her fingers with Christine's.

Christine woke up the next morning to find her father's coat draped over her and a blanket covering Carl. Her father was nowhere to be found, however. Maggie had stayed with her the whole night and Glenn had joined them too, sleeping with his arm around Maggie.

Christine remembered that night at the prison—a night that felt so long ago—as she woke up to the feeling of her father tucking his jacket in around her.

"No," she said sleepily. "You keep it."

"It's fine."

"Someone should keep their own jacket," she said. "It feels like…" In her half-wakeful haze, she struggled to find the right word. "Like musical chairs. Or musical jackets."

"Shhh," her father said, smoothing back her hair. "Go back to sleep."

Christine nodded but, instead of closing her eyes, sat up to look around the circle. Carol and Daryl slept with their backs against the same tree trunk. Sasha, Tyreese, and Bob slept on a large blanket, Sasha in the middle, holding onto Bob's hand. The new additions to their group—Abraham, Rosita, Eugene, and Tara—had set up farther out from the fire, not yet sure of their place. Christine watched as Michonne rose to take her father's place as sentry, the two of them touching hands briefly in a soft high five, as they switched out. Her father settled down behind Christine, Judith, and Carl, placing a hand on Christine's shoulder.

"Go to sleep," he repeated.

Christine blinked, feeling groggy yet content. She felt her father place the jacket back over her as she slowly lay down.

She dreamt of her mother that night. There was no radiating light, no white robes. Just her mother as Christine had known her in life, smiling at her and beckoning for her to come closer. Christine was holding Judith and moved to hand her to her mother.

Her mother shook her head. "I can't touch either of you."

"Why not?"

"I just can't, baby. I'm sorry."

Christine nodded and held Judith up to show her mother.

"She's beautiful."

Christine saw tears forming in her mother's eyes.

"She is," Christine agreed.

"I wish I could be there to see her grow up."

"We'll make sure she knows about you."

"What will you tell her?" Her mother looked worried.

"Good things." Christine smiled. "We'll tell her about what a good artist you were—are."

Christine remembered the first room that was ever truly hers. Her family had been living in her grandparents' house and then, for a time, Shane's parents' basement, but when she was six, they moved into a house of their own, complete with a room just for her. Her mother had painted it dark blue and decorated it with scenes from _A Wrinkle in Time,_ Christine's favorite book. She had even drawn Christine into the action, depicting her about to enter a swirling mass of yellows, blues, and greens.

"That's not what a tesseract looks like," Christine had said, referring to the cube-like structure that the characters used to travel through space and time.

"It's its own thing," her mother had replied. "So you can have your own adventures."

Christine's smile grew at the memory. "We'll tell her—we'll tell her how much you loved her and—"

For the first time, Christine became aware of the ground beneath her feet. It was beginning to crumble. She couldn't see anything behind her—just an expanse of white—but she felt a shaking against her back. She swiveled around as the world surrounding her began to come apart.

"I have to go now," her mother said, calmly.

"No. You don't. Just, just stay for a little while longer."

"I have to go."

Her mother turned and began to slowly walk away, her image growing hazier with each step.

"Mom!"

Christine watched as her mother looked back one last time before vanishing.

She woke with a start as the shaking against her back grew faster. The fire had gone out completely and Christine squinted, trying to adjust to the darkness. She sat up and looked down at Carl who was twisting and muttering in his sleep.

"Carl," she said, placing a hand on his arm. When he still didn't wake up, she squeezed gently. "Carl."

Carl opened his eyes slowly. Christine watched as he looked down at a still sleeping Judith to make sure he hadn't disturbed her.

"I'm ok," he said, still facing away from Christine.

"I know," Christine said. "Did you have a bad dream?"

"I'm fine."

"I know that. I know you are."

Carl rolled over, carefully shifting Judith in his arms, and looked up at Christine.

"We're not going to get separated again," he said.

"No, we're not."

"And you're not leaving, are you?"

"No, why would I leave?"

"Not, forever. Just, tonight. You're not going to… if I go back to sleep, you'll still be here? You won't leave?"

"I won't leave."

"Ok. Good," Carl nodded, slowly absorbing this information. "That's good. Sorry. I'm going to go back to sleep then."

"Alright. Do you want to give me Judith?"

"No," Carl said, forcefully. Then, "I mean, if that's alright."

"Of course it is."

Carl nodded again and turned back on his side, his breaths slowing. Christine noticed her father watching them. She supposed he had woken up too, or perhaps never fallen asleep in the first place.

"He's ok," she said.

Christine and her father shared a look of recognition before she settled back down on the ground, trying to match her breaths to Carl's.

"We're all ok," she whispered to herself. "We're going to be ok."

* * *

 _Author's Note: I am so pleased and grateful that people have enjoyed reading this and that some of you would like it to continue. I don't have any plans to continue this specific story, mostly because I don't have a vision for a longer saga involving the canon Grimes + OC Christine family. However, I am interested in exploring Christine through other (probably fairly long) short stories and maybe some smaller vignettes. So, if I write those-which I think I will-I'll mention in the description that they're sequels or prequels or what have you to this story. Thank you for reading this!_

 _Update: I've written a vignette called "Behind the Walls and Cages" that depicts Christine's interview with Deanna after the group first arrives at the Alexandria-Safe-Zone._

 _Update 2: I now have a prequel called "We Who Are Alive" that depicts the lead up to the outbreak from Christine's perspective._


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